


The Royal Courtesan

by CassieHughes



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Gratuitous Kilt Wearing, Humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 04:07:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3963790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassieHughes/pseuds/CassieHughes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Queen Arwen’s wish to honour a group of diplomatic visitors to Gondor has unforeseen results for a certain woodland Prince.<br/>Written for Teitho challenge - Raiment. (And from a challenge by Wynja 2007 to include a kilt)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Royal Courtesan

“Oh no.” The fair elf shook his head determinedly backing away from the dark haired elleth before him. “No, no, no, no, no.” He glared at the offending item of clothing she was waving in front of his face like a banner.

“Oh but, Legolas.” Arwen smiled and fluttered her eyelashes as she had done when they were elflings. “For me.” She knew he had never been able to resist her pleas. “Please, mellon nin. It is just your colour.” 

It had started with a diplomatic visit by a delegation from the far north. Elessar had long been working on a way to forge an alliance with the clans dwelling on the borders and much rested upon how this present sojourn went. So far the delegates appeared to have had no cause for complaint about either their reception or treatment and in fact, seemed to have thoroughly enjoyed their tours of the city and revelled in the banquets held in their honour. Discussions had been friendly and pleasurable and the king and his advisors had been pleasantly surprised by the northmen’s apparent eagerness for the alliance. It only remained for the treaty, which had been drawn up and agreed by both sides, to be signed and everyone could breathe a sigh of relief for a job well done.

This was where Arwen and the article of clothing she was so insistent upon their woodland friend wearing, came in.

It had been decided that the signing of the treaty be done in public to show the men of the north how important it was to Gondor and that this should be followed by a great, celebratory feast in their honour. Arwen had, of course, taken over the arrangements for the celebration and had decided to embrace both cultures in its décor, food and dress. Much research had since been undertaken and the seamstresses and cooks had been working non-stop for days to ensure all was as their queen wished. 

Strange smells from the kitchens had pervaded the whole of the palace as various dishes had been prepared, rejected, adjusted and cooked again, over and over to ensure their palatability to both guests and residents. Queen Arwen had insisted upon a mixture of cuisines from both Gondor and the delegate’s homeland to help emphasise their new found friendship and accord. Not all of the scents arising had been pleasant however and the gardens had oft been overrun by those palace dwellers who had been at liberty to escape to the fresher air. Even the king had not been immune and on two occasions, after particularly difficult mornings for the cooks, Elessar had been forced to hold council in the, more fragrant, rose gardens, which were a goodly distance from the kitchens.

With regards to dress for the event, the queen had been particularly keen on the members of the court and council adopting some of the north men’s various forms of national dress. This, Arwen felt, would show just how much Gondor valued the treaty and respected their new allies. Various patterns and materials had been sought and deliberated over, the queen having seemingly enlisted half the ladies at court to offer their opinions, before the seamstresses had been commissioned, then, the whole procedure had begun again, as they in turn gave their views as to which fabric would work with which pattern and style and which outfit would best suit whom. It only remained for the various recipients to try their garments for size and fit. 

This was where the trouble had started. 

It began, of course, with the king himself. Arwen had made three appointments for Elessar to meet with the royal seamstress for his fitting but each time, on the morn of the appointment, something ‘important’ had interfered with his attendance. Eventually the only way she had been able to get the two together was by inviting the seamstress to join them for a private luncheon, without telling the king, and having her bring the garments at the same time. The loud shouts of dismay and disbelief made everyone in the vicinity of the queen’s sitting rooms rush to be elsewhere.

At the same time the lady Eowyn had been tasked with ensuring that all was well with the clothing made for her husband, Lord Faramir. As the king’s chief advisor and steward, he would also be wearing a style of the foreign national dress but until presented with it had had no idea of its form. True to say at that point, the part of the palace in which their quarters lay, had also become anathema to passers-by.

It took quite a while for both ladies to restore order to their rooms and calm their gentlemen to states more befitting their stations, with pleas, sacrifices, entreaties and even threats utilised in numbers unheard of before. Eventually, however, peace returned to the palace, although its residents now had to become accustomed to their previously equable king and his steward, glowering at all and sundry as they stalked grimly through its corridors.

Everyone was extremely relieved when all was finally ready and the big day had arrived. The kitchens were running at full tilt, the gardens and coronation plateau were strewn with colourful ribbons and bunting, with a myriad candles placed ready to light when evening fell. The heavy oak table and king’s high backed chair had been carried manfully by the palace guard out of the great hall and placed near to the white tree, along with some lesser chairs for the dignitaries in readiness for the actual signing, all under Queen Arwen’s ever watchful presence. That the poor men had had to move the table four times before she was happy with its position, was neither here nor there.

Finally happy to leave the remainder of the tasks to be supervised by the Lady Eowyn the queen had then turned to what could be the final obstacle in the smooth running of the day’s proceedings. Legolas.

As the leader of the colony of elves now residing in Ithilien and King Elessars most trusted friend and advisor Legolas had been included amongst those Arwen had chosen for the honour of wearing the foreign national dress. In fact, he was to don the most distinctive of the fashion along with the king and the steward. Unfortunately she had been unable to speak to the elf concerning this matter in the recent hectic days so although a note had been sent appraising him of the dress code, there had been neither time nor opportunity for either viewing or fitting of the garments he was to wear. 

Thus it was that, moments prior to the signing, Arwen found herself confronted by a very unhappy, belligerent wood elf. 

“It is not the colour I object to gwathel nin,” Legolas pointed out indignantly. “’Tis the…. the… thing itself!”

“tis what the north men wear to appear their most impressive Legolas, “Arwen smiled sweetly, determined not to lose the battle. “And ‘tis called a….”

“I do not care what they call it Arwen,” the wood elf replied firmly, cutting off her words with an imperious wave of his hand. “And they may wear it if they will… but I will not.” He folded his arms across his chest and glared as if daring her to force him into wearing it.

“But Estel and Faramir will be wearing them, mellon nin,” The queen was having difficulty keeping her voice sweet.

“And your bothers?” He raised a brow archly.

“Ah, well.” Arwen smiled nervously. “They, they suggested that they be dressed in their usual garb, as commanders of the kings army,” she paused to lick her suddenly dry lips. “They will, after all, be on duty,”

“Ah, of course.” Legolas smiled wryly. “I might have known that pair would have some excuse ready.” He said sharply, flinging his arms up in disgust and walking over to the large stone fireplace that was, as yet unlit.

“Please, mellon nin, it is only for this one day.” Following him she held out the garment once more. “You know I would not ask if it were not important. Gondor needs this treaty.” 

For a moment they stood, warm chocolate eyes pleading with icy, sky blue then, at last, the prince looked away, his cool façade crumbling. He never had been able to deny the beautiful Evenstar anything she wished.

“This once, gwathel nin, just this once, “he growled and took the offending item between his thumb and forefinger as if it were a tainted rag. “I will do this if you promise never to ask me to wear foreign garb ever again.” His eyes sparkled with intent.

“I promise, Legolas, I promise.” In her relief Arwen would have agreed to almost anything at that moment. “I will never ask again gwador nin, never.”

A brief nod of the head and a raised eyebrow greeted her words and she let out a sigh of relief. The prince had capitulated much faster and easier than she had thought that he would. 

“I had best leave you to get ready.” The queen moved towards the door. “Aragorn will be so grateful to have your support in this Legolas.” She smiled. “Hannon le.”

“He does not know just how grateful he will have to be.” The wood elf muttered under his breath as she swept out of the room. 

“I’m sure you will think of something ‘Las.” 

Shooting her departing figure one last venomous glance as she uttered the lightly trilled riposte, he marvelled at how it was she still managed to twist him around her little finger after all these years.

***

It was nearing the middle of the day and the sun shone down from a clear azure sky as if blessing the upcoming event with its light. Men and women of all age and class had crowded into the allotted area and were presently keenly awaiting the royal party’s arrival. A slight, welcome breeze played with the ribbons and bunting, making them dance gaily, almost in time to the soft music that wafted over from the small troupe of players, a mix of elven and human, seated presently in the shade of the palace walls but who had been wandering amongst the gathering throng throughout the morning. The guardsmen forming two lines from the great wooden doors of the kings palace, that were only ever opened for state occasions, to the signing table were, as ever, standing alertly to attention, their black breastplates, emblazoned with the symbol of the white tree, shining brightly as sunbeams played over the inlaid mithril, sending flashes of light into the crowds. Seated beside the table upon which the treaty had been carefully placed and weighted down with silver spheres were the foreign dignitaries, regardfully taking in their surroundings and chatting quietly amongst themselves in anticipation.

A sudden hush fell as a single bugle rang out from atop the ramparts and all eyes turned to the doors below which slowly creaked open to allow the assembled throng the first glimpse of the royal entourage. Leading the way were the tall, imposing and darkly beautiful captains of the kings army. Dressed alike in charcoal leather breeches, knee high riding boots, pristine, white silk shirts with charcoal tunics bearing the entwined emblems of the king of Gondor and the elven realm of Imladris overtopped by long, dark as night cloaks that swirled about their ankles as they strode confidently forward, they appeared both deadly yet fair to behold. Mirror images, each bore their mighty sword on the opposite hip to the other, hands resting on the gilded hilts in relaxed readiness, their sharp eyes scanned the crowds continuously as they lead the way between the stationed guards. 

They were followed by a small platoon of soldiers, their ceremonial armour polished and gleaming in the sunlight, with pikes and heads held high. A fine sight to behold yet ready for action should the need arise.

Lords and ladies then began to pour through the portal, various members of the kings council accompanied by their spouses, ladies in waiting, stewards, apothecaries, advisors and the other, many and varied courtiers currently making up the kings retune. All dressed in their new northern style fashions, many strutting rather like peacocks and adding to the festive feel of the day. 

At last, to a flurry of excited chatter, came the sovereign leaders themselves and the crowd surged in excitement as everyone moved forwards in an attempt to get a closer look at those who led their realm.

Well-loved had ever been the Lord Faramir by the people of this great city but his white lady had not quickly been take to their hearts. Seen as some to be cold and aloof it had taken time, and the court minstrels hard work in recounting the tale of her valour, for Eowyn to gain their trust, if not quite yet love. To see them here, though, in matching garb, of deep, midnight blue and silver, their fair hair shining in the sunlight, quite took the assembled crowds breath away.

A pace or two behind the steward walked King Elessar and his beautiful elven Queen Arwen. They were yet strangers, having only been in residence for just over two years and to most seemed exotic and beyond reach. Placed upon their figurative pedestals, they were monarchs which the Gondorians regarded with awe and a little nervous wariness, yet were immensely proud to claim as their own. Rich burgundy and gold were their colours, he in a sleeveless deep burgundy jerkin with intricate embroidered vines in golden thread over a pure white silk shirt, she in a beautiful burgundy velvet jacket, nipped in at the waist, with matching embroidery and split sleeves. The styles of which matched those of the steward and his wife and seemed at the same time both usual and different to those currently in fashion in the city. It was not the colours, they wore, nor the fact that each complemented the other to perfection but the garments adorning the lower halves of the men’s bodies however, that had the people all atwitter. In place of their usual breeches, each wore a tightly pleated, plaid skirt that just skimmed their knees, leaving their muscular legs open to view.

Bringing up the rear were a small band of elven warriors, clad in simple green tunics with earth brown breeches and soft boots. Upon their backs they carried great longbows with full quivers and from each hip hung a long, elven knife. They hailed from the rapidly growing elven colony of Ithilien and they moved with a cat like grace unmatched by any mortal, exuding danger and sensuality in equal measure enough to make men and women alike tremble as they passed. At their centre strode an almost ethereal figure, tall and slender with eyes that flashed dangerously hither and thither, as if daring any to approach. Clad in garb that matched the warriors in colour, yet was in style alike to those of the Steward and King, with long, fair hair that danced lightly in the breeze forming a golden corona around a perfect, oval face and the green and gold plaid skirt swinging daringly about long, shapely legs with each graceful step, the elf drew every eye and garnered much speculation amongst the gathered crowd. 

As soon as the bugle had sounded, the foreign dignitaries had risen to their feet to stand in a semi-circle behind the table observing the royal party with much interest as they approached. Smiling they noted the subtle hint of warning in the posture and appearance of the two commanders and their platoon of soldiers then admired the elegant and colourful picture posed by the royal retinue, some even picking out a few pretty faces with the intent on pursuing a closer inspection of their charms later. 

It was on the appearance of the Steward and King however that the foreign party really became animated. The looks of surprise, wonder and amazed pleasure that crossed their faces when they saw the kilts they wore were something to behold and Arwen felt a rush of satisfaction as she realised her efforts were being so obviously appreciated. Nearing the official document she felt her hand briefly squeezed as Aragorn transmitted his love and thanks before they acknowledged their guests with a brief bow and took their seats on the throne like chairs placed in the centre, directly behind the table, Faramir and Eowyn having already showed deference and gone to take their places on either side of the king and queen.

With the remainder of the retinue, the soldiers and the elves forming a larger semi-circle around the central figures a hush finally descended once more until all that could be heard was the occasional piping laugh of a small child and the musical slapping of ropes upon poles as the flags gently waved in the breeze. 

All proceeded as it should with barely a hitch and the treaty was at last signed and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Aragorn found himself finally relaxing as the papers were rolled up then carefully stowed in matching tooled leather tubes, one to be removed to the Kings private library for safekeeping, the other handed over to the foreign diplomats ready for their journey back to the far north. After months of negotiations he could hardly believe it was all done and signed, his first major undertaking as a monarch but one he knew would not be his last. For his wish to see peace and prosperity spread throughout all of his lands and much of those beyond would need many such pacts and hard work before it came to fruition. Reaching for the goblet of wine that had been placed before him he gently smiled and allowed his eyes to meet those of his beloved wife in mutual happiness.

As servants bearing large platters of food and drink began to circulate through the throng and the music began to increase in volume the air became much more festive as people chatted and revelled in the sunshine. It had been decided that there would be no formal dining, leaving everyone free to circulate and mingle whilst nibbling upon the various delicacies being offered upon the huge salvers being borne around the plateau. Thus it was that a certain woodland prince found himself suddenly at the centre of a crowd of both foreign and native admirers all vying for his attention and all most disconcertingly male.

Legolas had not been happy from the first moment he had stepped from his guest rooms to seek out his elven companions and seen the look of astonishment on a passing servants face. To have been the brunt of mirthful lewd catcalls and leers from his own warriors as they first set eyes upon his ‘ethnic’ regalia had further reduced his mood and to have been the subject of so many stares and whispers during the parade had been the final straw, especially after noticing that his ‘kilt’ was somewhat shorter than that of either Faramir or Elessar, the seamstress obviously having mistaken the length of his legs. Any that knew him well could see the regal smiles and comments were but a thin veneer over a simmering cauldron of ire that could, when finally roused, out match that of even his father’s most cold and deadly wrath.

It was the steward’s lady who finally took pity upon the prince and managed, with much restraint, not to mention some judicious fluttering of eyelashes, to extricate the poor beleaguered elf from the affray before blows were struck and diplomatic relations became shattered beyond repair. She it was who had seen the ultimate indignity portrayed upon Legolas’ person as with a casual brush of a thick, bejewelled hand the foremost northern delegate had swept the plaid skirt upwards, revealing a glimpse of perfect, plump, pale cheek. As the elf swivelled, a murderous expression upon his face, she managed to simultaneously stumble into the diplomat, stamping her dainty heel firmly down upon his huge foot, fling the wine from her newly filled goblet into his face and reach out with her free hand to firmly grasp that of the fair prince before it made contact with the long, white handled knife habitually worn at his side.

Much apology, mopping up and many gracious words later the prince found himself being pulled away, muttering various oaths and threats under his breath, to a quiet spot where the dark haired peredhel twins were smiling widely with barely controlled mirth at witnessing his predicament. Needless to say, the king’s commanders soon found themselves backed into a corner by a very irate woodland prince.

 

“Aie, Legolas,” exclaimed the younger his eyes still dancing with glee. “Whatever is the matter, mellon nin?”

“Aye,” the elder added. “You appear a little flushed, gwador. Mayhap you have supped a little too much wine. Or maybe ‘tis a ‘touch’ of sun ‘stroke’ that affects you so.” He barely managed to stifle a snigger.

“Oh!” The prince’s eyes darkened dangerously as he glared at the pair before him. “So, you think ‘tis funny to be jostled and, and groped do you?” He snarled and leaned towards the pair, murder glinting from his eyes.

“Well,”

“Nay!”

Answering in unison the twins each took a step back, their eyes flickering to each other in consternation. Perhaps it was not such a good idea to try ribbing their friend at this moment. Their father’s favourite description of Thranduil’s elves sprang to mind and here and now Legolas truly looked much more dangerous than wise.

“Legolas, ‘Dan, ‘Roh.”

It may have gone ill for the brethren if at that moment Arwen had not chosen to approach, smiling widely, a foreign diplomat at her side.

“I would like to introduce you to the Laird of Macallan.” She indicated the small, red haired man at her side. “My brothers, the Lords Elladan and Elrohir.” 

“A pleasure to meet ya. Sirs.” The foreigner’s voice was deep and not unpleasant, with a lilting burr.

“And this is Prince Legolas of Ithilien.” 

At the slight emphasis Arwen placed upon the word prince the diplomats eyes widened in consternation.

“Ah!” his ruddy cheeks paled slightly and he shuffled his feet. “I fear an apology is owed, your highness.” 

As the foreigner bowed with a low flourish Arwen’s twinkling eyes met Legolas’ pointed gaze and she donned her sweetest smile but as his arms swiftly folded tight across his chest and his feet planted themselves slightly further apart, she could see that the wood elf’s more than ruffled feathers were not going to be smoothed so easily.

“Well.” The queen trilled brightly. “I am sure the prince quite understands…”

“Actually.” The icy tones cut through Arwen’s words like a knife. “I do not understand, Your Highness.” He emphasised, raising his expressive eyebrows at the queen before turning the full force of an icy gaze, borrowed from his father, upon the hapless diplomat.

“Erm, weel,” The man stuttered briefly, obviously wilting under the elf’s chill stare. “I am afraid my esteemed friend mistook you for a…” he swallowed before blurting out the next words. “A royal courtesan.”

“A….courtesan.” Rolling the unfamiliar word around his mouth the prince’s eyes seemed to harden further. “And pray tell, just what is a courtesan, if I might enquire?” He glanced at the twins as he heard a muffled snigger.

“A courtesan is, um, well, is someone who will provide pleasure,” the diplomat cleared his throat then continued swiftly. “By, erm, singing, or erm, playing music, or, well, um, certain other...” The mad rush of words tailed off.

“Ah.” Legolas nodded his head coolly and the three siblings held their breath. “And can anyone become a…royal courtesan?” 

“Oh, no, your highness.” Lulled by the apparent calm now suspended over the elf the diplomat began to relax into his explanation.

“Usually they are fairly high born, second daughters and the like, well educated and trained in all aspects of the arts of pleasu…” His voice dried as he realised too late that the calm was about to be followed by the storm.

“So.” The steel in the single word could have cut the air. “First one of your Lords decides to fondle my behind, without so much as a by your leave, then you try to tell me it is acceptable because he thought me a gentleman of pleasure?” 

“Ah, no, well, not really.” The small redhead began to back away his hands held out defensively as the grim faced elf stalked closer, his hand caressing the handle of the knife at his belt. “No, no, no he would never have thought that. That would be considered…unnatural.” A moue of distaste twisted his mouth.

The elf stopped, his head tilted to one side.

“Oh. So, if not that, what exactly did he think?”

The group leaned in slightly as they all waited for the diplomats reply.

“That you were a… lady of pleasure.” He finally managed to squeak out before collapsing in a dead faint at Legolas’ feet.

Silence fell as they all looked down at the small crumpled figure then Elladan let out a loud guffaw, closely followed by his twin and suddenly the air was filled with the sound of laughter as the two ladies found themselves unable to suppress their own gleeful giggles.

“A…woman!” Eowyn spluttered, half indignantly, half in amusement.

“I...always...said…you…were…too…pretty…for…your…own…good.” Elrohir managed to choke out between joyful whoops.

“’Tis all very well for you.” Legolas spat out indignantly. “You were not at the brunt of all this.” He turned to stalk away only to come face to face with a very perplexed looking Aragorn.

“And what has been happening here?” His regal gaze swept across the scene, taking in the mirthful faces of the twins, his lady wife and the white lady, then the deadly cool air of the wood elf, before falling to rest upon the apparently unconscious figure at their feet.

“What have you done?” He glared up at Legolas then sank to his knees beside the diplomat who was just beginning to stir back to life.

“My lord, take it easy, are you well?” Murmuring gently he assisted the foreigner into a sitting position then glanced back up at his queen with a raised eyebrow.

“I am fine, your majesty, fine.” The foreigner was desperately trying to regain his feet whilst avoiding the king’s gaze. “I just felt a little…faint, that is all.” Managing at last to stand he risked an abashed glance towards Legolas.

“I’m truly sorry, highness. I’m sure no offence was intended. Really. I should, erm, maybe if I just…”

Aragorn inclined his head as the diplomat bowed to him before scurrying away so quickly he almost tripped over his own feet, his face a brilliant scarlet.

“So. “ The king turned his gaze back to the remainder of the group. “Is someone going to tell me what has been going on?”

 

 

Gwathel nin = my sworn sister


End file.
